


And they all lived happily ever after…

by WriteBecauseYouCantBreathe



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Happy Ending AU, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-07-13 09:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteBecauseYouCantBreathe/pseuds/WriteBecauseYouCantBreathe
Summary: “You want a summary Katniss?” drawls Haymitch, “Snow’s dead. The games have always been rigged. And you’re going to have to learn how to live in hiding with the not-so-dead 74th tributes.” A Hunger games AU where all the tributes live because death is easy, it’s living that’s hard, and happy endings arenotoverrated thank you very much.





	1. took the Capitol train going anywhere

It’s a grotesque sight. The blunt butter knife was stabbed through with so much force that it uncorked the body like a champagne bottle. The blood went everywhere. You can still hear it, the blood wheezing out of the wound. It’s congealing into a sticky residue on the knife handle and the hand that’s still grasping it. The audience hasn’t said a word; they’re waiting for an explanation, and honestly who could blame them? It has been 90 minutes since the 74th Hunger Games, and President Snow currently has a butter knife stuck in his throat. The murderer turns around. The audience doesn’t know who they are. All hell breaks loose.

* * *

_ I’m alive. _

_ I’m alone. _

_ I’m on a Capitol train I don’t remember getting on. _

_ …and I feel like shit. _ I groan as I step up from the bathroom floor. My body aches all over but I ignore it to look at my reflection. The 74th Hunger Game lasted for only 18 days, but it felt like a lifetime; I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror. Katniss Everdeen is a bow and arrow in the woods trying her best to keep her sister alive. She’s not pretty with clean skin, tied hair, and dead eyes.

There’s a knock on the door.

I freeze. There’s a chance, a slim one, that whoever’s at the door doesn’t know I’m here, and I’ll need all the chances I can get. The bathroom is close quarters; there are no other exits or places to hide. Blocking the door may buy me some time, but with my small stature it won’t be enough, especially against a male, and I don’t have a bow with me—no weapons at all. I’m alone.

The knocks get louder.

_ No, not alone, _ I amend; someone’s knocking on the door. Breathe. The door is locked, but it won’t be forever. There has to be something here that I can use. My eyes dart around. The bathroom is sparse, heavily gilded, but sparse. There’s a small hand towel hanging behind me. If I can get it around the neck fast enough I might—

The door clicks open.

“Katniss?”

Haymitch quirks his brow and I can feel my face heat up as he takes in the sight of me frozen in mid-lunge.

“You ready to come out of there, sweetheart?” Haymitch asks, then his gaze lands on the towel still grasped tightly in my outstretched hand and he adds, “Unless of course you’d like to finish drying your hands first?”

“I’m fine,” I reply, throwing the towel down and pushing past him before he can respond. I end up in a dining room, and the decoration alone confirms my first suspicion: we are on a Capitol train. There’s no mistaking the plush furniture and mahogany table for anything other than utterly Capitol.

“That’s not what I asked.”

I tense as Haymitch walks in behind me, so light footed he barely leaves an indent in the rich carpet. He still walks like a tribute I realize, and then I wonder if he always walked like that or if the Games affected him as much as they affected me. I hope they have. The thought of Haymitch winning his Game and then forgetting he’s on a Capitol train heading to the Victor’s Village brings solidarity. But Haymitch adjusting to life outside of the arena faster than I do, leaves a cold fist in my gut.

“My hands are dry,” I force myself to smile and make a show of waving my hands around. “See?”

Haymitch says nothing and grabs a chair. He points to the one next to me.

There are only two plates on the table; Peeta isn’t on this train.

“Bit jumpy today, aren’t you?” Haymitch observes. “That’s alright, jumpiness helped you survive the Hunger Games.”

I notice he says survive instead of win.

“What’s going on?”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Haymitch taps his watch. “Before I start explaining, I want you to take a deep breath and hold it in for ten seconds.”

“I—”

“You can spend ten seconds holding your breath or you can spend ten hours arguing with me,” he interrupts, “and as your mentor, I highly recommend you choose ten seconds.”

“Is—”

“You’re panicking, Katniss. Do you even remember getting on this train?”

I do. I know I do. Somewhere in my mind there are flashes of a crowd, confusion, and being thrust onto this train, but that doesn’t matter now. Only one thing matters.

I raise my eyes to his, daring him to interrupt me again,

“Is Prim safe?”

He nods, and I hold my breath.

* * *

Ten

Nine

Eight

I remember worried faces. Everyone was worried. Even Caesar. Haymitch had snatched my arm…

Seven

Six

Five

Something went wrong.

Four

Three

Two

“Where’s Peeta?”

One

“Well, that was almost ten seconds. Really closer to eight but since it’s you I’ll allow it.” He squeezes the armrest and I realize that his hands are empty.

“What’s going on, where is everyone, where are we going, and  _ why aren’t you drinking? _ ”

“Asking the important questions now, are we?” Haymitch smiles, but it’s bitter and his shoulders are tense. “I’m not drinking for the moment, sweetheart, because I can’t have my reflexes dulled because the Capitol, well…” He looks around him, then leans forward, waggles his eyebrows, and whispers conspiratorially, “Did you know the odds were rigged in their favor?”

“They’re upset that we won together.”

“Furious.”

“And now they’re going to kill us?”

“Normally, yes.” He hesitates. “But now, you see, they’re not just angry at you. The cat’s out of the bag. Turns out the games have been rigged from the start, not in the Capitol’s favor, but in President Snow’s. Speaking of which,” Haymitch grins, “did I mention that cunt is dead?”

“…”

“Katniss?”

“If he’s dead, what happens to us?”

Haymitch sighs. “Right, let’s just go straight to the bad news.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Bad news is that you can’t go home because the person who did him in was a third party.”

“Meaning?”

“It was a Gamemaker.”

_ He’s lying. Why would he lie? No. _

I take a deep breath.

“Why would a Gamemaker, of all people, kill Snow?”

“They had internal conflict. Some of them didn’t like how the games quote unquote, ‘wasted potential soldiers.’” He spits vehemently to the side and internally I echo his sentiment. The Gamemakers valued lives even less than Snow did. They would think of the most entertaining ways to kill tributes, even if they were only twelve years old. I clench my fists at the unexpected reminder of Rue.

“They tried to find a way to bring the tributes back from death.”

I freeze.

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” he continues, unperturbed, “they were only concerned about the Careers, but then Snow scrapped the project so they did him in.” He mimes stabbing a knife through his neck. “Right now, everyone’s confused about who’s in charge and what that means for this years tributes so we—”

“Wait. Back in the arena, there were Muttations. One of them—” I dry swallow. “One of them had Rue’s eyes.”

Did I imagine it? I couldn’t have. I couldn’t. Haymitch is reaching over his armrest for a drink, his fingers curl wishfully around air before he realizes there’s nothing there. He meets my gaze.

“They injected more than a tracker this year, and,” he shrugs, “turns out there’s not much of a difference between a mutt and a tribute. The Muttations were a bastardization of the original project; instead of bringing a tribute back to life, it brought them back to life as a deranged mutt, but the base formula was still present. All the 74th tributes are alive.”

I hear nothing but the blood in my veins.

“W—What did you say?” I stammer. I never stammer. Something is wrong.

“You heard me the first time, Katniss,” he says gently. I can hear the worry in his voice, and I’m sure if I looked up I would see lines in his forehead and creases between his brows but right now I’m too focused on my palms. They’re sweaty and starting to itch and what the hell is going on?

I wipe my hands on my pants and try to swallow.

Distantly I can hear Haymitch saying something, explaining something, something important about hiding, and I want to listen, I really do but I can’t. Because the room is spinning and I’m about to fall and wouldn’t it be a shame if this time I never woke up?

* * *

I wake up.

It’s dark. There’s barely enough light to make out the couch I’m lying on. As my eyes adjust, I can see different shapes on the upholstery. I try to trace the pattern with my finger. It feels gaudy. Capitol.

I close my eyes.

Sleep is so much more enticing than trying to untangle the impossible. I was there, Haymitch wasn’t; he didn’t see the tributes die. Even if there was more than a tracker, even if the Gamemakers tried something new, there’s no possible way for them to be alive. I saw them die.

I can feel the train roar beneath me.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have the absolute worst timing?”

I keep my eyes shut. I don’t have the patience for sober Haymitch.

_ coldcoldcold _ **_coldCOLDCOLD_ **

I jolt up from the couch absolutely drenched from the shoulder up, and littered with ice cubes.  “Did you throw water on me?” I splutter.

“I’m pretending it’s vodka,” replies Haymitch, not the least bit apologetic.

I glare at Haymitch, or at least try to; it’s difficult to glare and rub feeling back into your face at the same time. I loathe to admit it, but throwing ice water was effective. I’m more alert now, and there’s no way for me to comfortably lie back down on the clammy couch. Standing up, I can see why there’s hardly any light; thick, heavy curtains cover the train windows.

“Security,” Haymitch says, catching my gaze. He’s reaching for a bucket of ice on the table and despite my anger, I can’t help but watch on bemusedly as he scoops a fistful of ice into a glass and then, with intense concentration, adds just a tiny thimbleful of water.

I shake my head. This isn’t the time to be wondering about Haymitch’s strange idiosyncrasies. There are much more important questions.

“Where’s Peeta? Why isn’t he on the train?”

“Peeta, well, he is a lot more charismatic than you are.”  Haymitch gives me a pointed look.

He’s right—I’m not the least bit charismatic, but I don’t particularly feel like agreeing with Haymitch when his cheeks are bulging with ice cubes.

Haymitch swallows, somehow, then continues,

“Peeta and others are going to see if they can placate the crowds a bit before meeting up with us in Warehouse A.”

“Warehouse A? Where are we going? And why does he have to placate anyone?”

Haymitch pours in more ice.

“It’s like this, Katniss, no one likes the 74th tributes. Snow’s supporters don’t like you and Peeta winning together, the Capitol doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on, and everyone else doesn’t like the Hunger Games at all.”

“And how does that affect us?” I demand.

“It affects you because Panem is bloodthirsty and needs to be sated,” explains Haymitch while chewing ice. “They may disagree on who should win, but they still want their Hunger Games. They don’t like the idea of no one dying, and when something happens that they don’t like, Panem has a habit of killing everyone then pretending nothing went wrong. To stop them we’re keeping the tributes in hiding.”

“We?”

“The rebellion: people who don’t like the Hunger Games at all.”

“But where exactly are we going?”

“I’m not sure, only Effie knows the exact location.”

“Effie?” I question, “Effie Trinket-------?” Haymitch smirks, “No one would believe that bobblehead knows anything important, and very, very few would stomach the headache to try and talk to her.” He looks oddly proud.

“But is it safe? How long will I be there?”

“The place we’re going to is out of both District and Capitol territory. It’s where the Gamemakers first tested weather simulations. There’s a literal blizzard standing between you and them. You’ll be there as long as you have to be. I wish I could say it won’t be long, but something like this has never happened before.”

My head hurts.

“Haymitch, I want to go home. I can stay in hiding there.”

Even as I say this I know it’s not entirely true. They may hide me, but there’s a reason District 12 never had a volunteer. The Capitol would only have to threaten to further limit our already scarce resources, and we would crumble. I think back to the meager faces of District 12. I couldn’t blame them for turning me in. I would do the same if it meant saving Prim. Prim…

“What about my family? What if the Capitol—” fear grips me “—what if all of Panem goes after them?”

Haymitch’s face darkens. “I won’t let them hurt your family, Katniss; I promise.”

I look, truly look, at Haymitch and try to see him as the Victor that he is. His appearance is still bedraggled, but his eyes are no longer bloodshot. There’s a certain fire to them that wasn’t there before. His whole demeanor has changed; his posture is straighter. He’s no longer pretending to be defeated. I believe in him, I do, but I’m not used to putting my life in someone else’s hands. I think Haymitch understands that because he changes the subject.

“You’ll be living together with the last eight tributes and the District 1 female.”

I wish he hadn’t changed the subject.

“I’ll be living with the Careers?!”

“And Rue. And Peeta. Thresh—”

“I thought you said I’d be in hiding?” I interrupt. “I thought that meant I’d be in hiding alone. How is having us live together supposed to make us harder to find? And why with the Careers instead of literally anyone else?”

“You nine had the most attention in the games,” he says, exasperated. “The audience barely knew the other tributes, a change of hair and a different name was all they needed. We had to find a place that would keep you safe from all the Districts and the Capitol. There weren’t many options.”

“But the Careers? They can’t go anywhere else? They  _ volunteered _ to be in the Games.”

Haymitch gives me another pointed look.

“As did you, remember?”

“For my sister, not for  _ glory _ . They’ll probably want to stay dead to make the Hunger Games more authentic.” I wince, my words sounding harsh even to me, but it’s true. The Careers, they killed tributes and  _ laughed about it _ .

“They have as little a choice in the matter as you do, sweetheart. Panem wants to forget the 74th Hunger Games ever happened; they’re not looking for a do-over.”

I slump down dejectedly. “So that’s it, then; I’m supposed to give the Careers another chance to kill me?”

“They won’t kill you—”

I scoff.

“Because they _ can’t _ —”

“They came close.”

“Listen to me, Katniss; very few people with power want all the tributes alive. Most Districts only want their tribute alive, if at all, and there’s a high chance that whoever replaces Snow’s will also want all the tributes dead. If the people who want you alive had any power then this would be a completely different story, but they don’t.”

I grit my teeth but there’s nothing I can say. District 12 has always been powerless.

“The ones with the most power right now are the Gamemakers. They have the capabilities, the equipment, and they’re playing both sides. We’re working with some of the Gamemakers, the ones who were against Snow, but make no mistake, they’re not on our side.”

Anger flashes across his eyes.

“You’re a bartering chip to them, Katniss, it’s another game only this time they want to prove that they can have their Hunger Games and their tributes. Otherwise they’d kill us as happily as they killed Snow. The other tributes won’t try to kill you—they can’t, because if any one of them does, if any one of them tries, if any tribute dies at all, then you will  _ all _ die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrote this chapter for clarity. Thank you Beta Readers for making this legible. Always looking for more Beta Readers so if you're interested shoot me a pm. Next chapter is extra long as a thank you for waiting this long.


	2. Familiar Faces [EXTRA LONG CHAPTER]

If there’s one thing District 12 knows, it’s how to make do with the worst possible options. The Careers never had to. I intended to make the most out of the train ride by asking as many questions as I could, but Haymitch couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell me anything useful.

_“The fewer people who know, the fewer people who can be questioned. Everyone knows snippets, some right, some wrong, but no one knows the whole picture.”_

_“I’m not asking for the whole picture, I’m asking for a summary.”_

_“Panem will be in chaos, Snow is gone and there are hundreds clawing in the shadows to take his place.” He sighed. “We don’t know what’s going to happen, but at least you’ll be safe.”_

_“Nothing is safe.”_

_“You’ll be given weapons.”_

_“Just me, or everyone?”_

_“...”_

_“Unbelievable! They’ll give all the tributes weapons and expect them not to kill each other?”_

_“You don’t need a weapon to be one.”_

_“You mean the Careers don’t. Since they’ve been trained. On killing with their bare hands.”_

_“Don’t worry, sweetheart; with the way you’ve been gripping that chair I’m sure your hands are just as lethal as theirs.”_

That was at dinner, nearly three hours ago. The train has come to a stop since then, but with the curtains smothering all light and sound, the only indication I have of time passing is the ticking of a gilded grandfather clock. The Hunger Games weren’t this quiet. If I die here, there would be no announcement. A funeral, that’s what this is; they want me to die here, out of sight forever, waiting for Panem to change their mind. My fingers dig deeper into the armrest.

What’s taking Haymitch so long? He said he had to check on things outside, to make sure everything is ready, but what if it’s a trap? In the previous games there was a Career who set snares. They’d leave food, equipment, something valuable, and the tributes would come, and end up dangling, begging for their lives; and the Careers would laugh as they died slowly. Like a bird in a net. Like Rue.   

_Scratch scratch scratch_

My hands can barely kill furniture.

* * *

Stepping outside feels like stepping out of a coffin. As soon as I’m out I’m blinded by the sunlight. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, and even longer for me to believe what I’m seeing. A lush, dark blanket of grass is painted onto a mountainside, carved with shimmering marble steps and accompanied by the low rumbles of a faraway waterfall. I take in deep breaths of fresh spring air, hinted with the scent of promising fruit. Turning to Haymitch, I ask, not quite believing what I’m seeing, “This is the place?”

“Yep.”

Haymitch is noticeably less awed than I am. He ignores the view entirely and instead bends down to pluck a blade of grass. He pinches it between his forefingers and holds it up to my face. The grass shimmers. A hologram.

“A synthetic nightmare.”

He drops the foliage and it flickers briefly before vanishing completely.

“C’mon, let’s go before the Gamemakers change their mind.”

We walk up the steps in silence; the scenery doesn’t change. Now that I know it’s artificial, the magic is lost. It’s absolutely suffocating. The grass is too green, the waterfall is on loop; and perhaps most unsettling of all, the marble steps ignore my shadow. They remain bright and shining no matter what I do. Twice now, I’ve scuffed my shoes against them. They push back firmly as, I presume, actual marble steps would, but there’s no proof of my presence. The steps remain unscuffed and, the second time, I could’ve sworn I heard static.

“There’s no blizzard,” I say, stating the obvious just to break the unsettling atmosphere.

“It’ll be on after I leave. No one will be able to get in.” Haymitch’s eyes meet mine. “And no one will be able to get out.”

I open my mouth to say something, anything, to stop the conversation from fading back to silence, but then the air shimmers and suddenly we’re standing in front of two enormous metal doors. No, not just metal. The doors aren’t made of solid steel; rather it’s as though someone took various metals and broke them into a thousand pieces, all thicker than my arm and more than double my size, and then twisted them into mesh upon mesh. The doors easily dwarf the train. I can’t begin to imagine how heavy they must be, and there’s no handle, no keyhole, no discernible way to get in. How does Haymitch expect—

“Katniss!”

Twin voices snap me out of my observations. I was so engrossed in the doors that I failed to notice the two figures standing right in front of them.

Peeta and Effie.

I’m running, closer and closer till they’re only a couple feet away.

Peeta.

A part of me wants to hug him and never let go. _We made it, we’re alive, we’re alive._ But it’s a small part. The rest causes me to still my hand. We don’t have to pretend to be together anymore. We don’t need each other for survival. When Peeta doesn’t move closer either, I wonder if it’s for the same reasons.

Effie has no such qualms and before I can dwell on my thoughts any longer, she’s there, hugging me tightly, pressing a kiss to both my cheeks.

“Katniss it’s—” Effie cuts herself off mid-sentence and purses her lips as she takes in my appearance. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I adjust my clothes. Both Peeta and I were given sets of plain gray t-shirts and jeans, and while it’s not as lavish as something she would want me to wear, it is definitely more comfortable.

Effie doesn’t comment on my clothes. Instead, she tuts and reaches for my unbrushed hair. I steal a glance at Peeta, wondering if he’ll say or do anything, but he just stands behind her awkwardly.   

It’s fine if Peeta doesn’t want to say anything. It’s unusual given how friendly and talkative he was during the Games, but then again, I didn’t know him really well outside of them. All I have to go by is thrown bread. Maybe it was all an act, and this is the real Peeta, one who likes to keep to himself. Whatever. The important part is that he’s alive and so am I.

I disentangle myself from Effie and turn to Haymitch who’s standing in the field with a weird expression on his face. As if aware of my gaze on him, he shakes himself out of the stupor, crosses his arms, and scowls.

“What are you doing here, Effie?” grumbles Haymitch. By the tone of his voice, I take it Effie isn’t supposed to be here.

“Well, I couldn’t leave you to face this,” she huffs, cocks one hand on her hip, and gestures at the doors with the other, “monstrosity by yourselves! I assure you both that the inside is far more welcoming. Why, I personally put in some finishing touches.”

I couldn’t help but snort at that. Despite everything we’ve been through, Effie has managed to remain, well, _Effie_.  

“You could show _some_ gratitude.” She gives me a dirty look, then pulls out a pink, bedazzled eyesore to fan herself with. “I had to fight tooth and nail to get them to make any accommodations; they looked personally offended when I brought up sequins!”

“Effie,” Haymitch closes his eyes and starts massaging his forehead. “You’re not supposed to be here. We had a plan.”  

“Oh, hush.” She swats his arm. “I couldn’t leave, not after you begged for a bottle to get you through the hologram. I had to make sure you could, at the very least, make it here in one piece. She winks at us and cups her hand around the side of her mouth as if she’s about to tell a secret, but instead of whispering, her voice is at the same volume, if not louder. “Besides, not following the plan makes me unpredictable. A genuine secret agent.”

“You’re an informant who is supposed to be informing others right now,” Haymitch says gruffly, but there’s no bite to it. I think he’s genuinely relieved to see Effie. Glad to know I wasn’t the only one who found the walk unnerving.

Effie rolls her eyes. “It’s called being fashionably late, darling. I’ve been on my feet all day; the least they could do is wait a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Effie,” Peeta interjects, “but if people are waiting for you, we don’t want to waste anymore of your valuable time.”

“Oh, it isn’t a bother,” she titters. Peeta was definitely her favorite. “I had to see my Victors and remind them,” she shoots me another dirty look, “to not attack any of the furniture or other tributes.”

I swear, you stab one piece of mahogany and all the mentors put you on a furniture watchlist.

“And remember, this is a mere imitation of the Games. A cheap, secondhand knockoff if you will.” Effie laughs, and it’s as grating as always, but her voice has an uncharacteristically somber undertone. “They can try to replicate it all they like, pick a different area, put you two in with as many of this year’s tributes as they want, but it doesn’t change anything. We all know who won. You’re Victors, both of you.” She looks at Peeta, at me, and then she turns her nose up at Haymitch, tells him to take a bath before his next appearance on television, and sashays back out into the hologram, all prim and proper.

Haymitch chuckles once she’s out of sight. “Well, that was an experience.” Stepping up to the door, he brushes a coiled copper wire. “She does have a point. Not about my appearance, mind you; I’d still look rugged with or without a bath, but about you two being Victors. Regardless of your District number, you two still managed to beat the odds and win, and that means you’re the biggest threat.”

“Uh-huh,” I reply, peering around to watch his hands. I’m trying to listen, really, but all he’s saying is stuff I already know, empty words meant to give Peeta and I false hope. I had no time for it back home and I have no time for it here. I’m much more interested in how he’s going to open these huge metal doors. So far all he has been doing is touching some pieces of copper.

“Is there a passcode?” Peeta questions. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one watching. I try to look unbothered by the fact that Peeta would rather talk to Haymitch than to me.

Haymitch gives a long-suffering sigh and Peeta turns sheepish.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

“No, it’s fine. We can discuss it inside. I’m sure you two are more curious about how to open up this monstrosity. Right?”

“Not more curious. Equally curious. We’d be happy to listen to you then open the door or—”

“Haymitch, how do you open the door?” I interject. It’s not that I want to interrupt Peeta’s polite babble, but if I don’t, we’ll be standing here for hours going over please and thank you and other small talk.

“Well, you see, Katniss, it’s so complex, they didn’t bother to explain it to me.”

“You don’t know how to open it?!” I shout. Unbelievable. This entire time he made it sound as if it was a foolproof plan when in fact it was no safer than taking us home.

“Katniss, Katniss, I didn’t say I didn’t know how to open it,” Haymitch tsks as he continues to brush random copper wires. “I can open it, I just don’t know how it opens. The simplified instructions they gave me only said to keep touching different copper pieces until the doors open.”

“How is that any different? We could be standing out here for hours.”

“Do you have anywhere else to be?” retorts Haymitch as he goes about randomly touching the pieces of copper wiring.

This unexpected moment of time to be alone with my thoughts doesn’t sit well with me. Back in District 12, there was always something to do, mouths to feed, and in the Hunger Games I had my hands full with my own survival. Now, everyone else is working hard to keep me alive. Haymitch has rarely sat still; but in the few moments I’ve had with him he’s been flinging around scraps of information like they were leftovers from a much bigger meal. A meal that I’m not part of.  Even Effie is involved, and who knows how many others, but all they expect me to do is sit quietly and hide—with _them_.

Suddenly, it gets harder to breathe.

I had put off thinking about it, but seeing the big metal doors, and knowing that Rue and the others are on the other side, brings the thought forefront to my mind.

“They’re waiting for us,” I croak out, my throat bone dry and my voice wavering.

“You two were the last to arrive,” confirms Haymitch, his hands still working on the big metal doors. “When you get inside there’ll be a Gamemaker—just one; an intern who will be watching during the introduction and tour to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

I silently remind myself that it’s better in the long run for me to keep my cool and not punch Haymitch for daring to tell us about the Gamemaker last second.

“Introduction and tour?” asks Peeta.

Haymitch shrugs. “Capitol stuff. Just play nice till the Gamemaker goes away. Then you can yell, scream, fuck, whatever, till your heart’s content so long as it doesn’t physically harm the other tributes.”

If only it were as simple, if less crude, as Haymitch makes it sound. More than anything I want to see Rue alive and happy, but I can’t ignore the sharp pangs of guilt. A small part of me does wish for the doors to never open. It’s selfish; I know Rue will be happy to see me, but it was my plan that killed her.

Mercifully, I’m not left to dwell on my thoughts for long. Haymitch finally brushes the right piece of copper, a wire coiled around where a door handle would be, and the ground beneath us flashes like the blade of grass did. For a split second I worry the ground is going to disappear, but then the flashing stops and the doors groan open.

I walk in, half expecting to see cold steel and lethal traps. Instead, I’m greeted by cream walls, a wooden floor, and even a cross-stitched “Home Sweet Home” sign. I instantly hate it. It’s just like the Capitol to dress hiding-from-Panem-with-people-who-tried-to-kill-you as a vacation home. Everything inside is as poised as a Capitol smile. There’s a grand welcome mat behind barred metal doors. The vase on the brown side table holds water with plastic flowers. Everything is fake, and everything has its place. Looking around, I can easily pick out which decors were placed by Effie, as they’re the only ones that look proud to be here.

“Where are we headed, Haymitch?” asks Peeta, smiling as he adjusts the plastic flowers. Evidently, he’s not as perturbed by living out of a postcard as I am.

Haymitch checks his watch. “You two are headed to the dining room. I, unfortunately, have to leave—”

“What?!” Peeta and I shout together, voices tinged with his uncertainty and my anger as we both turn and zero in on Haymitch.

“Easy, easy.” Haymitch raises his hands in mock surrender. “Look, I would love nothing more than to show you two gremlins around Paradise, but there was some dispute between Enobaria and the District 2 female that put us behind schedule.”

“Enobaria’s involved?” I ask, reeling. “Just how many people know we’re here?”

“I can’t, and won’t, answer that. You should know that by now, Katniss,” Haymitch responds plainly. He raises a questioning brow at Peeta, waiting to see if he has any questions as well, but when Peeta remains silent, Haymitch goes back to answering mine.

“We’re doing the best we can, but this is big and we don’t have that many hands. You’re going to have to toughen up and get used to working with people you don’t like, starting now.”

“Toughen up? I survived the Hunger Games—"

“Then this should be easy for you,” Haymitch goads. “Go to the dining room—you can’t miss it; it’s straight down the hall and to the right—for the little meet and greet between tributes. They can’t kill you. Are you up for it?”

A thousand different responses flash through my mind, things like, _“They couldn’t kill me when they tried,”_ and, _“Do you think your baiting is subtle?”_ But I don’t voice any of them. How could I? Haymitch may pretend otherwise, but I can see the lack of sleep staining his eyes and the uptake of gray in his hair. He’s old, and tired, and doing way more than he has to.

I turn away from Haymitch and walk towards the dining room wordlessly.

And if a little voice inside my head swears at Haymitch, well, nobody would know that except me.

* * *

 

I slow down as I hear Peeta racing up to catch me. He’s at my side when we turn the corner and spot the District Two male—dogs tearing flesh, arm around Peeta’s throat, “Please.”—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and glaring. There’s no mercy in his gunmetal blue eyes, only hatred.

I immediately jump back into a defensive posture and raise my arms.

Cato smirks. “So this is who they rigged the games for?” His eyes move past me to focus on Peeta. I tense. “Can’t imagine why,” he drawls. “A ball and chain would’ve been less of a dead weight.”

“He won the games,” I cut in, arms still raised, before Peeta can respond. “He’s a _Victor_.”

His glare deepens but the smirk doesn’t fade.

“Can’t even fight verbal battles without your help, Twelve?” He mocks.

Any pity I had for him is gone. There’s not a trace of the mad man I saw on the Cornucopia; it’s as though the Games never happened.

Peeta puts his hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Katniss; they’re waiting for us.”

“You’re right,” I call out loudly as Peeta leads me away. “He’s not worth it.”    

I don’t hear a response, but I do hear footsteps. Stalking. Mocking me by remaining just out of my line of sight. Peeta squeezes my shoulder, reminding me that we have to get along, that we’re heading to the same place anyway, but Peeta’s hands are sweaty and his face is drawn. Of course, that’s why Peeta’s been so withdrawn; he’s afraid. Cato did almost killed him. Twice.

“You’re not dead weight,” I whisper, but Peeta doesn’t respond and I can almost feel the smirk behind me. It’s a relief when we finally make it into the dining room.

* * *

 

The dining room, as it turns out, is a small subspace adjoining the kitchen that holds one large table. There’s nothing that can block the stares of seven pairs of eyes as we walk in. I risk taking a look behind me and draw in a sharp breath. District Two must have taught them how to stalk tributes, because there’s no other way Cato could have gotten that close. He looks at me, I try not to draw my shoulders, and then moves passed me to the table. He’s ignoring me. I don’t know whether to be angry or relieved. Tributes. All of them, back in the flesh, and seated around the table. There are hateful glares, neutral stares, and then there’s Rue, almost nestled against Thresh, and I let go of a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The Gamemaker is in this room. This is important: the Gamemaker is in this room. If I start to cry—sob, break down on my knees, beg her for forgiveness, hold her close and not let go till we’re safe, truly safe--if I do that, then the Gamemaker will jot it down in her tiny clipboard, and take it to whoever’s in charge now, and then I’ll never see Rue again. So it’s very important that I do not cry, do not show any emotion at all as Rue gives me a smile I never thought I’d see again.

Then, Marvel leans in sideways towards her.

I don’t realize my legs are moving.

One second, I’m standing next to Peeta, in the next I’m bounding over the table, knocking over a chair, and standing firmly in between Rue and Marvel. Blood roaring, I give Marvel a murderous glare until he shrinks back to his seat.

Rue brushes her hand against mine. I turn to her, forgoing my glare with Marvel. _She’s alive_. But Rue isn’t smiling; her face holds a neutral expression and she carefully tilts her head ever so slightly in the direction of the Gamemaker.

She’s standing a nervous distance away from the table; a bespectacled heavyset woman whose large deep-set black eyes and coarse russet hair could only be described as cow-like, dressed in a large white lab coat and holding a small clipboard.

She gives an awkward cough. “Well, now that we’re all here. Hello, my name is Molly. I will be here to facilitate a meet and greet as well as give you a short tour around the facilities. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

When her introduction is met with resounding silence, she gives another, longer, awkward cough then continues,

“Please sit down in the chairs corresponding to your District numbers, males on the right, females on the left, and then we will begin with the activity.” She starts flipping through her clipboard as Peeta and I awkwardly make our way to our seats. I don’t have far to go, even though it's only nine out of twenty-four tributes, they still lined the chairs according to District numbers. I grab the chair I knocked over and sit down between Rue and District 1. It’s Peeta who has to make his way across the room, amidst all the eyes. He keeps his own focused firmly on the floor as he walks, taking no notice of the glares directed to him, the impassive faces, not even Rue’s wave. Each step he takes increases the tension in the room so much so that by the time he takes his seat next to me, I half-expect to Molly pull out a bowl of paper and announce the next Reaping.

Instead, Molly fidgets with her clipboard for a bit, flashes us a fake smile, and begins to read off it. “Today, we will play a fun little game to get to know each other then I shall proceed to guide you through the facilities. I shall now hand everyone a folded piece of paper with your name on it. They each also have a cute little silver bow on them. Please do not remove the bow until everyone has their paper. Hand out papers.” She fumbles with her clipboard. “Oh, haha, I wasn’t supposed to say that last part aloud.” Silence. She fishes around in her lab coat for the papers and passes them around before reading off the next page.

“The instructions are simple: each paper contains the name of someone else. As we go around the table, starting with District 1, you may ask whoever’s name is written inside your paper one question. Question cannot be deeply personal, nor humiliating. If you cannot think of a question to ask, or do not wish to answer the question, you may choose instead to say a fun fact about yourself that the others don’t know. Please answer at least one question about yourself or say one fun fact. The objective is to learn about each other to ease the transition from a combative to a non-combative state. District 1 male, you may begin.”

Marvel rips open his piece of paper, looks to Cato, and blanches. “Uh, my favorite color is gold?” He looks to Molly, who gives an approving nod, and then clasps his hands behind his head and lounges back in his seat with a lazy grin.

This is stupid. Perhaps the only thing we can all agree on is that we’d rather be somewhere else.

Glimmer doesn’t bother opening her paper, instead she smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I have a bee allergy.” She laughs, “I was also pretending to be bad at archery, but you must have known that, Katniss.” She turns to me, smiling, waiting.

“I didn’t know that…”  

“No?” The word is saturated in mockery, but Glimmer’s disposition hasn’t changed; she’s still sickeningly sweet. She continues slowly, as though she’s speaking to a toddler, “You didn’t notice I was closing the wrong eye? You’re supposed to aim with your right eye, not your left. You didn’t wonder, not even a little bit, how I got an eight in training?”

“I assumed you slept with the judges,” I deadpan. I refuse to play in these mind games. If she has a problem with me, she can say it to my face instead of hiding behind this thin veil of formality.

“I’m not your mother.”

My eyes see red. I reach back for my bow, remembering too late that it’s not there. Glimmer sees this, and now her smile meets her too smug eyes. She probably won the verbal spar but I don’t care, battling verbally isn’t my thing. My strength lies in shooting arrows through bleach blond, bubble-headed, spoiled targets with plastic—

“You died before Rue,” Clove’s words cut through the tension, my eyes snap to her, and her icy glare in return makes it clear that she’s not speaking in my defense. “Regardless of your training score, you still died before all of us. Even the twelve-year old,” she states, matter of fact, as if she’s reciting from a textbook.

Glimmer arches her manicured eyebrows comically high. “Didn’t you lose to District Eleven as well?”

Clove pulls out a six-inch knife and, oddly, I find the action to be reassuring. Clove without knives is unnatural, it makes her small stature more prominent. It makes her look like a kid— _screaming for Cato in her last moments, couldn’t overpower Thresh, not up close, not without a knife, the too loud sound of rock hitting bone_ —but she’s not a kid, she’s a weapon as deadly and unassuming as a knife. She came the closest to killing me—would have too, if she hadn’t stopped to make it entertaining.

I shove the thoughts away. Right now, Clove’s ire is directed toward Glimmer; the pointed knife making her unspoken threat loud and clear.

“Relax, you don’t have to answer the question,” Glimmer says, showing her empty hands and looking completely nonplussed.  “Although…” she trails off innocently, her eyes searching Clove, “I would like to know how someone as young as Rue got to be a District Two tribute.”

Clove glares daggers back at her. “I’m fourteen, and I scored a ten.”

“Yes, but Cato is seventeen. Why didn’t they team him up with a more,” Glimmer lowers her voice, “ _mature_ woman?”   

“Because I’m deadlier than the eighteen-year-olds. District Two chooses their tributes based on their skill on the battlefield, not in the bedroom.” Clove’s voice is even and she has shown no emotion, but Glimmer is still looking as smug as a cat that ate the canary.  

“Um.” Molly looks taken back. Shit. I forgot she was here. If she relates this confrontation to the other Gamemakers, they may decide we’re a lost cause and forgo helping us.  

Glimmer bats her eyes. “Don’t worry, Molly; this is just girl talk. We’re getting to know each other, and that’s allowed, isn’t it?”

“Um, well, yes. It’s encouraged, actually, but—"

Glimmer gives a small pout and her bottom lip starts to quiver. “Did we do something wrong?”    

Miraculously, her phony display works.

Molly nervously assures her, “Oh no, no, everything’s fine,” as it looks like Glimmer is about to cry. She hurriedly calls on the District 2 male.

Cato grumbles something I can’t hear but Molly is so relieved to be moving on that she doesn’t bother to tell him to speak up. Clove, likewise, gives a noncommittal tidbit about her not liking cowards.

Foxface surprises everyone by actually opening up her piece of paper. She looks at Rue and gives a reassuring smile. “Rue, what’s your favorite color?”

It’s an easy question, but Rue’s face scrunches up in concentration.

“Hmmm, well, gold is nice, but…” She glances nervously at Marvel, who doesn’t say anything, likely because he isn’t paying attention, and continues on in a rush, “I like blue, bright blue, like the color of robin eggs.”

Foxface bursts into hysterics. We all look to her, surprised that an emotional outburst would come from Foxface of all people. “Sorry, sorry, it’s not you, Rue.” Foxface reassures while wiping up tears in between giggles. “It’s just, I’m so happy to be alive right now. I know we tried to kill each other—”

“You didn’t kill anyone,” Peeta whispers so softly that I don’t think he meant for even me to hear him.

“—but we’re alive now and that’s what matters.”

She’s right; being alive is all that matters and to do that we have to somewhat get along, at least in front of the Gamemakers.

I chime in, “Foxface is right, we need to—"

“Foxface?” The girl from District 5 looks at me with one brow raised and a bemused half-smile while I inwardly curse at myself for saying that nickname aloud.

“I, um, it was a nickname I made because I forgot your name in the Games,” I explain, and desperately hope that the heat on my face isn’t noticeable.

“You don’t even know her name?” sneers Cato. He’d stayed silent the entire dinner but somehow me not knowing Foxface’s name is enough to bring him out into angry disbelief. “Did you pay attention at all?”

“Of course, I did,” I snap. “Do you know her name?”

Cato lifts his chin and starts counting off facts on his fingers. “District 5 female tribute. Age fifteen. Training score 5. No preferred weapon. Specialty, stealth and survival. Scavenger. Perfect score on plant identification. Real name—”

“Call me Foxface,” interjects Foxface, “I like it better than my real name anyways. Everyone, call me Foxface.”

Marvel pipes up, oblivious to the social tension, “That’s a dumb name, why not choose something prettier?”

I scoff, “Your name’s _Marvel_.”  

“Yeah, so?”

I shake my head, chastising myself for saying anything; this isn’t the time to bicker, not with the Gamemaker watching. We’re so close; it’s Thresh’s turn, then Rue’s, Peeta’s, and then mine and we’re done.

Thresh’s frowns when it’s his turn, but says nothing and dutifully unwraps his paper. He stares at the words for a long time, then violently rips it into tiny pieces. Once the pieces form a small pile on the table, Thresh looks to Foxface.

“Would you like to talk about plants after this?”

Foxface gives him a small smile.

“I’d love to.”

I suspect the paper didn’t actually have Foxface’s name on it, but Molly doesn’t seem to notice nor even be aware of the possibility that we don’t want to be a part of this deranged activity.

Rue gets Peeta’s name and she asks him about his hobbies; Peeta answers by telling her about baking and starts describing the process of making a cake. When she gets wide eyed at the idea of bread decorated in sugar and as wide as her head, Peeta promises her that he’ll bake her a cake she can have all to herself.

Then it’s Peeta’s turn. He had opened his paper as soon as it was handed to him. I saw the name, and expected to hear a fun fact about Peeta, but he surprises me by reading the name aloud.

“Clove.”

She gives no indication that she heard her name, and continues to idly play with her knife, seemingly taking great comfort in making everyone feel nervous.

Peeta curls his hands, but continues undeterred, “What did dying, and coming back feel like?”  

Cato snarls. “She doesn’t have to answer that!”

“I’ll answer it.”

Clove’s voice is still impassive, but she glares at Peeta who, to his credit, flinches but maintains her gaze.

“It felt like failure,” Clove bites out, venom seeping through every word.

But Peeta, sweet, suicidal, Peeta isn’t done.

“But what did it feel like? Was it quiet? Did you see light?”

Clove looks at Peeta as if he’s grown a second head.

“I blacked out and then I woke up in a hospital bed. There were no _lights_ ,” she sneers and Peeta looks sheepish.

“Oh.”

It’s my turn; I open the paper in front of me. “Thresh.”

Thresh gives a barely noticeable nod. Since he was reaped, he’s been quiet, even in the interviews, but he’s also strong. It would be good to get to know more about him; while I don’t think he would try to kill me here and he did spare me in the games, I’m still unsure of where his loyalty lies. He could be bitter about me winning the games, about me not saving Rue. I have to ask a neutral question; one that doesn’t pry too deeply, but still shows me whose side he’s on.

“Are you Rue’s brother?”

“Not by blood.”

Short and sweet, but the one answer tells me everything I need to know. He won’t join the Careers, not after they butchered Rue. _But that doesn’t mean he’ll join me. After all, I couldn’t save her._ My throat clenches up. Rue’s presence by my side becomes too much. _I couldn’t save her._

“Ehm, alright then,” says Molly, “We had some ups and downs, but I’d call this a smashing success.” She gives a nervous laugh, looks around, and quickly tucks her clipboard in underneath her arm. “All those ready for a tour, follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah Katniss why don't you know her name -.-
> 
> Thank you Beta Readers for making this legible. Always looking for more Beta Readers so if you're interested shoot me a pm.


	3. On The Groundworks of Friendship

Before Molly can take a step forward Peeta stands up and begs, “Could we have some time to ourselves before the tour? Please?”

  
Molly tilts her head, inspecting him through her spectacled rims while I silently wonder if Peeta has lost his damn mind. Spending more time in here, with the Career pack on the prowl, cannot end well. Does Peeta think Molly’s presence will protect him, when the blithe Gamemaker can barely prevent a conversation from ending in murder?

  
“You may have five minutes,” says Molly. Blithely.

  
Before I can warn him, Peeta’s racing passed me towards the back. He’s a lamb headed straight to the slaughterhouse. The Careers know the area; they got here before us. They may not be moving yet, but I can practically hear them salivate as Peeta ducks into the kitchen like it’s a shelter. But a shelter from what? He knows there’s nothing preventing anyone from following him. I want to follow him; to find out which of the many things that are wrong is causing him to behave like this. But I can’t. I’m not leaving Rue.

  
Rue squeezes my hand. “You can go after him,” she says.

  
I look at her and try to ask, in the politest way possible, what makes her think she’ll still be alive when I come back, but my mouth can’t form the words. Deep down, I already know the answer. Rue survived alone against 23 other tributes. It was only after she joined me that she died. If she hadn’t, if she had stayed in the trees—  
I shake the thoughts away and give Rue a quick squeeze back. The kitchen is within sprinting distance. If I run, they may focus on me and Peeta instead of on Rue. I turn to Thresh, to ask him to protect Rue in my absence, just in case, but the question dies on my lips.

  
Thresh tries to look unaffected as Cato sits peacefully and glares at him with more hatred than eyes. A cold chill runs down my spine. I know why the Careers didn’t follow Peeta; they’re waiting for Cato to make the first kill. The pinpricks of Cato’s eyes, sharp and jagged, rocks floating in a vengeful sea, tell me everything I need to know. As soon as Molly, absent-minded Molly, loosens her grip, Cato will kill Thresh, and then he'll turn his eyes to Rue.

  
Cato curls his lip, flaring a mouth with too many teeth.

  
Prim would want me to save Thresh. She’d want me to come gallantly to his aid, say “a favor for a favor”, and then defeat the Careers singlehandedly without a weapon. But Prim is innocent. I’m not. To survive you don’t have to outrun the predator, only the nearest prey. And Thresh is the nearest prey.

  
My breath quickens.

  
Despite every line in Cato’s body straining, Thresh isn’t dead yet. That, above all else, proves we’re safe for the moment, but moments pass quickly. The kitchen is nearby; if Cato attacks, I'll hear it—I know what the ripping of flesh sounds like—and I could make it to the kitchen and back before it starts on Rue.  
I'm gone before the guilt of leaving Thresh behind can settle.

* * *

  
I find Peeta looking absolutely wretched, curled into himself under a counter. A sigh of relief escapes my lips at the sight. I’m relieved because if Peeta was alright then that would mean I left for no good reason, but this logic holds no sway over the waves of guilt lurching around in my stomach, so I focus instead on my actions.  
I gently grab his arm.

  
“Peeta?”

  
At the sound of my voice, Peeta slowly raises his head.

  
“What’s wrong? Why are you avoiding me?” I ask softly.

  
Peeta tugs his arm away and looks beseechingly at the exit.

  
“I—I’m not. Don’t you want to talk to Rue?”

  
“I want to know why you’ve been avoiding me,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “You’ve been acting weird since we got here, and even weirder with District Two. Listen. Cato can’t hurt you, okay? What he said earlier, that was just him being a sore loser.”

  
“He’s right.”

  
I bristle. “No, no he’s fucking not. We won the Games together—"

  
Peeta laughs and its sounds so empty and bitter that for a moment I’m not sure who he is, but the moment fades and then there’s Peeta looking up at me with sorrowful eyes filled with a regret that only he could have as a Victor.

  
“I failed, Katniss. I thought the Games wouldn’t change me but they did.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I couldn’t save anyone.”

  
“You saved me.”

  
He gives me a rueful smile. “No, I didn’t. You saved yourself and me. I didn’t even come up with the idea with the berries.”

  
“No, you—" how can I help him, how can I make him see, “—you helped, Peeta. You’re good with words and you got us sponsors—"

  
“The only sponsor gift we used was for my leg; you didn’t need any.”

  
“No, you—you have to understand. I need you, Peeta.”

  
“No, you don’t. Katniss, please,” he begs softly, a pain-filled expression on his face. “I couldn’t save—I stood back and watched.” He wipes his eyes and that’s when I realize he’s crying. I made Peeta cry. The tears flow faster. He stifles a sob. I made Peeta cry and I have no idea how to fix it.

* * *

  
Molly’s braying voice breaks in and announces what we already know—we’re out of time. Peeta rinses his red-lined eyes in the kitchen sink. I open and close my mouth, waiting for the right words to come out, and when nothing happens I leave to join the others and pretend nothing is wrong.

  
It’s what life is—moments that don’t last long enough for me to find the right words. Perhaps, I muse, taking my seat and feeling the tension in the room wrap around my throat, all the words are wrong.

  
Rue’s hand fills mine with solace. The Careers have yet to move from their seats; the moment still stands. Molly ahems as Peeta hurriedly takes his seat, then she strides over to the far end of the room and presses her knobbly fingers against the wall. She starts tracing, and the wall follows her finger with eruptions of silver. Everywhere she touches patchworks of silver veins grow until they cover the wall in a macabre net before shimmering, then dissolving alongside the wall to reveal a hidden doorway.

  
“This building holds many wonders,” says Molly, her voice breathless as she caresses the frame as though it were a lover. Then, as if remembering we’re here, she takes a step back.  
“There,—there used be doors here, and many more rooms but we removed them and restricted access in order to maximize contact. Our studies have shown, well, actually, the results are inconclusive,—but we theorize that frequent contact and familiarity are the groundworks of friendship,” says Molly. She looks expectantly at us, as if hoping we’ll suddenly become enamored and ask her to elaborate on the theory of friendship. When, of course, no one does, Molly dejectedly adjusts her glasses and says, “Right, well, there are a lot of you so please raise your hand while talking.”

  
I share a confused look with Rue.

  
“I mean to talk, please raise your hand to talk,” corrects Molly. “And when asking, please state your first name, er,” her gaze lands on Foxface, “or whatever name you want to be called. It may take me awhile, but I’ll try to learn everyone’s names.”

  
We remain silent causing Molly to huff, “Well no one expected you to be here, and there’s no point in remembering the names of dead tributes, is there?” and storm through the newly made doorway.

* * *

  
Despite her words, Molly doesn’t stop and answer questions. I do my best to match her snappy pace while keeping a comfortable distance away from the others.

It’s easier said than done. Given what Molly said about maximizing contact, I’m certain the hallway was made narrow on purpose. Twice now, Marvel has tried using the close quarters to make a bumbling attempt at small talk with Cato. Each attempt ended with Cato ignoring him completely and increasing his pace, until the two boys are almost sprinting down the hallway. It’s not until Marvel stumbles into Cato’s murderous little shadow, Clove, that he gives up, realizing there is a stronger possibility of Clove killing him, than of Cato giving him the time of day.

However, these close quarters do have one benefit: they give me an opportunity to inspect the seemingly wooden walls without alerting Molly. Carefully, I trace my fingers along the wall like Molly did, feeling the small bumps and irregularities in the paint. Nothing happens. There could be a horde of Gamemakers on the other side watching us through some perverse fishbowl and we’d be none the wiser. The thought gives me chills and, despite the company, I move in closer, seeking solace in the anonymous nature of crowds, and try to shake off the uneasy feeling of being watched.

I almost say something to Peeta.

We reach the end of the hallway and the soft padded carpet gives way to harsh grated metal. We file into a metal amphitheater with a large glass dome gripped in its center. Thin silver lines wrap across the glass in hexagons, making it bear an uncanny likeness to a dead wasp nest. I don’t so much peer into the honeycombs as stare back. Each comb shows a magnified view of the inside, allowing me to delineate every detail in the familiar training mats, and the unfamiliar Gamemaker contraptions.

“This is the training room,” says Molly. The twin visceral smirks appearing on Cato and Clove are all the encouragement she needs to launch into explanation.

“Humans are highly adaptable creatures. We use this training dome to gain understanding into the human psyche and to better predict their actions and responses.” She frowns. “Used. We used this training dome. It’s been empty since they decided mindless violence was a better use of twenty-four live human test subjects.”

She clasps her hands behind her back and clomps towards the dome, pressing against the metal railing until it pinches her lab coat.

“The Hunger Games never could live up to their potential. The masses always clipped Icarus’s wings before he could fly, their sights too short, their attention span too fickle, never able to truly dream. This is the place we went to test things feeble minds deemed insignificant.” Molly clutches the railing in her heavy hands and squeezes till it groans, then looks to us with her cold dead eyes and murmurs in an almost gentle voice, “We call it Paradise, a place where science has no limits.” She heaves a weary sigh and turns to face us. “If you are so inclined, you may use the training room for yourselves. Data will be recorded each time you do, heaven only knows why; Paradise was abandoned long before we rose the dead.”

Rue timidly raises her hand and Molly gives her an exasperated look before clomping past her into the next room.

* * *

  
“This is the recreational room,” Molly intones, barely pausing long enough to give a half-hearted wave of her hand. The room has a sweet aroma of burning hickory that has already enticed me, but her dismissive gesture made me fall in love with the space. I trail my hands along the plush couches, memorizing the feelings of softness and warmth. Any other day I wouldn’t have fallen in love with this room, but now, knowing what lies ahead, I find myself yearning. It’s a bit selfish; I know that as soon as the tour ends this room will be tainted with bloodshed, but I let myself pretend, for a brief moment, that we won’t try to kill each other. I pretend that there are no Games, and that the smell of burning hickory still reminds me of warm winters instead of close calls.

But I’m not a child, and even if I was, there’s only so long one can pretend. I give the room one last wistful glance as we exit into what appears to be another hallway, except this one has a dead end and is just large enough for two people to pass shoulder-to-shoulder. There are doors with our names on them lining the walls like opposing soldiers. One side has Districts 1-5, the other 11 and 12.

“This is the last part of the tour,” says Molly. She drops the information carelessly, and it spreads throughout the room like blood in water. My eyes train on Clove’s hand, which is ever-so-casually closed around the hilt of her knife.

“These are your rooms. The door handles are keyed into your DNA, so only you can open the door to your room. To do so, simply ensure bare contact with the door handle and turn and open as usual. However, anyone can open the door from the inside. This was done to prevent people from getting trapped. The mechanics of this were actually a bit tricky since we had to find a way to specify, or else we run the risk of feeding conflicting data and, well, a headache would be putting it mildly. Anyways, weapons are in your rooms—”

Drip. Drip. Drip. More blood spilling into the water. It pools into a thick film of tension that coats the room and weighs on my shoulders as I quietly edge closer to the door with my name on it. I know they’ll attack me first. Right now, my best chance of survival would be to make myself as small a target as humanly possible then run as fast as I can into my room; but there’s a problem, one I know the answer to but am doing my best to ignore. Focus. I adjust my stance. I need to take Clove out first. She’s small, maybe with surprise, before her training kicks in—  
No. Too risky. Cato’s standing too close to her. We’re in close quarters. I’m terrible with close quarters. I need distance, I need a bow—

What about Rue?

“…clothing, and any personal items your Mentors chose for you… tablets in your rooms…request meal choices,” Molly drones on.

I know the answer.

Molly, finally and all too soon, stops talking. She clicks her heels, and the floor underneath her shifts. She disappeared in an instant, but before she did, I caught her expression. She was watching us, and she was smiling.

I can’t risk it. I can’t. I want to live.

The Gamemaker has left the room.

I know I’m leaving you behind, Rue. I’m sorry.

Cato lunges first. I feel safety beckon to me with a brass plated handle. I see his form barrel towards Rue.

  
Insanity is my only defense, because it sure as hell isn’t bravery that propels me into Cato, bruising my shoulders against a wall of muscle as his form doesn’t budge in the slightest.  
It’s useless.

  
Cato lifts me off the ground as if I’m nothing. I thrash frantically, trying to break free, but it’s too late; I’m caught. Eyes boring into mine he snarls, not a hunter stalking prey but a sadist with a piece of meat.

  
I see the ceiling. Then the floor. Then my body meets the floor in a dull thunderstorm of pain.

  
I blink away tears. Grit my teeth and focus on the anger—only to see Thresh, lying prone underneath the raging Behemoth.

  
He doesn’t bother to struggle.

  
Cato rears back his fist.

  
I brace myself for the telltale sound of fist hitting flesh, but it never comes.

  
“Cato. What. The. Fuck.” Clove, her knife pressed against Cato’s throat punctuates her words with sharp anger. It’s not a question but a threat. She must have claimed Thresh as her kill.

  
I’m wincing as I stand and there’s a dull, throbbing pain throughout my body, but Rue is staring wide-eyed at Thresh’s limp form and I have to do something, anything, to prevent her from seeing a loved one die. To prevent her from turning into me.

  
“He didn’t kill you; I did,” I lick my dry lips and will my voice not to shake as I stare into his soulless eyes. “I’m the Victor.”

  
Cato smirks. It’s an infuriating, self-satisfied smirk, the kind that I would happily rip off his face and stuff down the throat of his ever growing ego, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s extremely dangerous and heading towards me.

  
“We’re not supposed to kill each other,” I say as he gets closer, hoping it doesn’t sound like a plea. I add, for good measure, “Otherwise I would’ve killed you twice.”

  
Cato stops just out of arm’s reach, and, still smirking, basks in bated attention. Sadist.

  
“They didn’t tell you everything, did they?” he asks, voice oozing with smug superiority.

  
They did tell me things, but I want to know what they told him, so I remain silent and Cato takes it as confirmation.

  
“You cheated. We received a message in a sponsor gift, telling us to draw out your deaths. That’s why we teamed up with Lover Boy. That’s why you didn’t die in that tree.” His words tug on the people in the room drawing them in closer, tightening around me like a noose.

  
“I didn’t cheat,” I say, indignation clawing through me.

  
“I received a letter too,” says Foxface, ever the shifty eyed opportunist. “It said to stay away from 12 because there was going to be a showdown between them and the Career pack.” Her lips curl into a faint smile. “Naturally, I assumed others received similar instructions and I took advantage by staying near Peeta. Although…” she trails off with a questioning glance towards Peeta who looks as though he’s trying very hard to turn invisible. “…I’m surprised you made it. The mud would’ve have worsened the infection.”

  
“You knew where I was hiding?”

  
I scowl. “No, they all saw footage of the Games on their way here.”

  
“We did,” admits Foxface. “But I also knew where he was hiding. There’s more to covering your trail than throwing mud.”

  
Peeta swallows hard, his face tinged an interesting shade of pink. “I tried to make it look like the surroundings.”

  
Foxface gives him a half hearted shrug. “Even if you were successful, there’s still more to tracking than following footprints.”

  
“Maybe you didn’t cheat,” suggests Marvel with a wary look. “I mean, it’s less cheating and more marketing? They,—someone,—wanted your District to win. Maybe they needed a female mentor?”

  
*click*

  
Thresh’s door closes shut and there’s a brief moment of incredulous silence as everyone turns and stares bug eyed at Cato.

  
“Training room. Now,” clips Clove and with a bored expression she walks away, Cato on her heels, with me gaping at their retreating backs.  
Just like that? They left so easily. Hands curling, nails cutting into my palm. Do our lives mean that little to them? Breathe.

  
District 1 is strutting towards their rooms. There’s a wide berth between them and everyone else; not much, but enough so that I can breathe a bit easier. The distance is more out of formality than safety. I don’t think they have weapons like Clove, or would be willing to get blood on their hands like Cato, but more importantly I know they wouldn’t dare take a kill that’s claimed by District 2.

  
Rue is staring at her door, deep in thought. I make my way towards her, placing my body between her and the other Tributes. It’s not good to be lost in thought here, but when I nudge her shoulder to shake her out of it, she looks at me with an expression I can’t quite place, whips around, and slams her door shut in my face.

  
“She needs time to herself,” Peeta says gently as he comes up beside me. And yeah, I guess that makes sense, but I was still expecting something. Not even a thank you, but maybe a “see you later” or a small wave goodbye after I risked my life by stepping in front of a charging Cato.

  
I huff a, “Goodbye Peeta,” and go to my room, slumping down on the floor as soon as the door closes.

* * *

  
I want to close my eyes. Let my head droop down like a wilted rose between my thighs and just lie there. Exhaustion is a long heavy hand pushing me towards the bed. But they’re right outside and I don’t want to die and that’s the problem.

  
“Do they want me to apologize for not dying?” I say to the empty room. It’s minimalistic for the Capitol, obscenely wealthy for anyone in District 12. The bed is wide enough for two pillows to sit side by side. There’s a closet, a bathroom, and a dresser. The former has a small electronic tablet propped on it, which I idly remember Molly saying was for food and item requests. Aside from the wall paint being a mockingly cheerful shade of seafoam green, or maybe cerulean, there’s nothing that can be remotely interpreted as a response to my question. It’s unsurprising, but the silence still leaves me oddly unsettled.

  
I wait in case there’s another skirmish, but when nothing happens I begrudgingly stand up and make my way towards the tablet.

  
“I didn’t choose this.” The words come unbidden, dropping from my mouth like water from a leaky faucet. There’s just something about a silent room that invites confession. I fiddle with the tablet, picking the sensible options the ones I can understand.

  
“I’d rather kill them. It was easier…far easier…when they…” I trail off. There is nothing good that comes from saying it aloud. From admitting that I miss the Hunger Games, even if I only miss the smallest part, the part where I knew what I had to do to win. I turn the tablet around and push the screen firmly against the wall, then I settle down on the bed, grimacing when the mattress sinks under my weight instead of holding firm. My hands brush against something solid. I look down and see a long wooden bow with a quiver of arrows. There are soft cuts in the wood that I know, from experience, is caused by angling the knife in too deep when stripping bark. One side of the bow is clearly heavier than the rest, and the grip is smooth in a way that suggests old age. I smile at the imperfections. Such a bow could never have come from the Capitol. Haymitch must have bought it from District 12. A reminder that he’s looking out for my family. A piece of home.  
My smile fades. I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for myself when I have both food and shelter, but there’s something inherently unjust about having a weapon you’re not allowed to use. It’s like they’re hoping I’ll forget what happened. Turn into those princesses in castles and wait for Prince Charming. I giggle at the idea of me as a princess, then I laugh at the image of Haymitch dressed as Prince Charming, and finally I somber thinking about how it must look through the fishbowl, me having a laughing fit while cradling a bow.

  
The Girl on Fire is truly dead.  Nothing but ashes of a girl. They don’t need her anymore, so they lock her away while she burns and burns.

  
I can’t stay here alone with my thoughts. Not now. I open the door and nearly collide into Foxface. She has an apple in her hands, a glint in her eyes, and a question in her teeth.

  
“Do you want to join us in the rec room?”

  
“Join who?”

  
“Peeta,” replies Foxface. Her honeyed brown eyes are not quite hiding her amusement.

  
I nod. There isn’t much more to say. I’d follow Peeta almost anywhere.

  
Almost.

* * *

  
The rec room loses some of its charm when it has Glimmer perched on a highchair like a harpy, and armed with a mirror, makeup, and narcissism.

  
Foxface clicks her tongue at my sour expression. “Ignore her. She’s here because apparently this room has the best lighting.”

  
Glimmer purses her lips but says nothing; too engrossed in her own reflection.

  
Seated around a small table piled with food are Peeta and Thresh. Their body language are night and day. Thresh has the look of a dour despot in an armchair. He’s shoveling various foods into his mouth, and I suspect the food is the only reason he’s here. Peeta, on the other hand, is practically vibrating with nervous energy when he sees us approach.

  
Peeta awkwardly pats the sofa cushion next to him. “Come sit next to me, um, Foxface.”

  
I stare at Peeta for a solid five seconds, but he says nothing further. Foxface points me towards an empty armchair.

  
“I thought it would be best for us to discuss things,” says Foxface. She rolls the apple in her palms. “It would be beneficial to form an alliance against the Gamemakers and Careers.”

  
Glimmer is preening with her back towards us, but I spot her emerald eyes narrowing in the mirror. I don’t mention it to Foxface; if she didn’t want Glimmer to eavesdrop, she wouldn’t have sat down so close to her.

  
Thresh looks up mid-chew. “I don’t need an alliance,” he says softly. I take stock of the ugly purple fingerprints around his neck

.  
“It’s not about need; it’s about peace of mind. The Game has changed. There’s no clear way to win, and we don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here,” replies Foxface, nodding her head towards the food. “An alliance would mean sharing of information and advice, such as storing food now in case they change their mind.”

  
Thresh says nothing, then gives a slow, decisive nod. Foxface looks towards me.

  
“I’ll join,” I say, loud enough for Glimmer to hear, “and Rue will join too. We’ll show the Careers why they shouldn’t underestimate us.”  
A soft whistle pierces the air. Blood pools to my fists as Glimmer calmly applies makeup while giving a mocking rendition of Rue’s song.

  
“Don’t,” mouths Foxface.

  
I clench my jaw. Eventually, the whistling stops.

  
“I’d love to join as well,” says Peeta. He starts playing with his hands. Folding and unfolding them. Twiddling his thumbs. “I mean, it makes sense doesn’t it? There’s not really a good reason not to join.” He gives a shaky laugh.

  
“That’s settled then,” says Foxface.

  
“No, it’s not.” Thresh levels me with a steely gaze. “Rue still has to make a decision. Her decision.”

  
“I wasn’t trying to—”

  
Thresh cuts me off. “I know, but she’s not a child. You need to stop treating her like one.”

  
I bite the inside of my cheek. If Rue was born in a better District, she’d still be considered a child. But this is no time to consider what ifs; the alliance won’t go anywhere if we keep squabbling.

  
I jerk my head in agreement.

  
The room starts to fill with heavy silence and the awkwardness hangs in the air.

  
“We should share information,” blurts Peeta. He turns to Foxface and gestures to some of the fruits on the table. "You're very good at recognizing plants."  
"Those are fruits; from the fruit bowl. They're labeled."

  
Peeta winces. “Yes. So they are. But you are good at identifying plants? Earlier today, at the table. I was wondering if you’d be willing to teach me?”

  
“Of course.”

  
“Wait a second,” I interject, irked at how Peeta visibly relaxed at her answer. “If you’re so good at identifying plants; then why did you eat the Nightlock?”

  
Derisive laughter erupts from Glimmer as she swivels around to face us. With all eyes on her, she says in that same mockingly sweet tone, “Nightlock kills in an instant, Katniss. I’m surprised you don’t know this; usually ugly girls are smart.”

  
“I do know that,” I snap. “My point was, if Foxface is as good at identifying plants as she says she is, then she should have been able to identify Nightlock.”

  
Glimmer rolls her eyes. “She did identify it, you twit.”

  
“I wanted to die,” explains Foxface in a calm, even tone. At our questioning expressions, she gives a half shrug. “I didn’t have much to live for anyways, and the berries seemed a painless way out.”  
“It’s a shame,” says Glimmer without missing a beat. “You could’ve won if you weren’t so eager to stuff your mouth.”

  
“You’re clever. It’s a shame we never got to see it in the arena,” replies Foxface, and she bites into her apple with a loud crunch.

  
I wait for Glimmer to stalk away before asking Foxface the question that’s been on my mind since the beginning.

  
“How do we know you won’t betray us?”

  
Foxface doesn’t meet my eyes. “You don’t know, but that doesn’t matter. Our mentors warned us that if one of us dies then we all die. At the very least, you know that I would not do something as foolish as risk all our lives because of wounded pride.”

  
All of a sudden we hear an angry voice shout, “CATO LUDWIG, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.”

  
And then we’re running as fast as we can towards the training room.

  
_Stupid. Stupid. Of course they’ll kill each other. What did I expect?_

  
Thresh reaches the room first and freezes. When I reach the room, I freeze in shock as well because there, in the dome, are Cato and Clove, and they’re _kissing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback appreciated


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